PS 3525 

.P144 

L3 




1917 
Copy 1 


THE LAST LOVE 

AND OTHER VERSES 


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LAVENDER DEERFOOT 




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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



7 



THE 

LAST LOVE 

and OTHER VERSES 



BY 

LAVENDER DEERFOOT W vv#v 




NEW PALTZ, NEW YORK 

TIMES PUBLISHING COMPANY 

19 17 






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coi'VinnHT 

SiyETKHN HUNDRED SKVESTKKX 
ItU THOMAS F. MrCAltTHy 



DEC 10 1917 

©aA47!)487 



D ED I C A T I O N 

To fragrant, living 7neniWies, 

To love and all its good. 
To occult hopes and yearnings, 
^ To roamitigs through the wood, 

To evening's golden sunsets, 
' To night's sweet dreams, sublhne. 

To cadences of song birds, 
7(7 each far star that gleams — 
/ dedicate this rhyme. 



CONTENTS 

THE LAST LOVE \ 

HOPE 3 

LAKE MOHONK 4 

AUGUST 6 

WOODROW WILSON 7 

WHOM WAR REWARDS 8 

MY PARTNER 9 

THE HUNTERS' MOON 10 

SPRL\G II 

UNDER THE ROUGE 13 

THE LIFE OF A YEAR 15 

THE FINAL CURTAIN 17 

FORGIVENESS IvS 

TO THE TENTH NEW YORK INFANTRY . 19 

DISCOVERY 21 

PAN PIPES . . . . 2i 

TO MY VALENTINE 26 

ON BUYING ROSES IN DECEMBER ... 29 

WHEN THE LEAVES BEGIN TO FALL . . 30 

OCTOBER 31 

TO A LETTER BEFORE OPENING 

THE ENVELOPE 32 

NEOLITHIC POETRY 34 

LAMENT 35 

LINES ON A DARK KNIGHT 37 

A SUMMER REVERIE 38 

CP.T'ELTY TO ANIMALS 39 



THE SIMPLE LIKE 41 

MARCH, THE GAY DECEIVER 4-> 

TWILIGHT 4'i 

OPERATIC CATS 46 

IT ALL DEPENDS ON THE WEATHER . . 47 

AUTUMN 49 

NON COMPOS MENTUS . 50 



THE LAST LOVE 

There's a useless sort o' beggar 
Livin' on the mountain side; 
His clothes are torn and ragged 
And he seems to have Tip pride. 

His house is but a shaky hut, 
That trembles with the wind; 
His furniture a chair and stool, 
Of hand made, rough hewn ki-nd. 

His hair is long and curly 
And his face, which none have seen, 
Is covered with a shaggy beard — 
A sorrow wight, I ween. 

I happened up that way one day, 
When June smiled in the skies, 
To quiz this lo-nesome beggar 
All about his family ties. 

I asked him why he lived alone. 
Why dressed he so uncouth, 
Why ne'er a razor touched his face, 
Had e'er he been a youth? 

I told him of the great big world. 
With all its joys of livin'; 
Of brotherhood of man and love, 
And some of Ghristia,n givin'. 



1 lie old man lauglied a joyous laugh, 
(I knew not he could smile,) 
"Your world's an empty hole" he said; 
"While mine's a beauteous pile." 

"What cares my God how raggedj toi^ 
The raiment that I wear; 
What cares He if I ne'er have shorn 
My head or face of hair?" 

"lie chides me not wheiias my home 
Doth dance with every breeze; 
i\or cares He not if I must eat 
Beneath His tow'rin' trees. 

"He only asks that I be kind 
To birds and bees and flowers; 
That, though I mi^igle not with men, 
I love them all the hours." 

"And so, my friend, the God I love 
Sees not the things that fade; 
He cares not how my body's dressed 
Hnl how my soul's arrayed." 

I like that ragged beggar and 
When other friends have fled* 
ril build myself a mountain hut 
And love his God instead. 



li P K 

The bee to the llower conieth. 
The sun at dawn to the sea, 

The moon at eve to the heavens, 
But never my Love to me! • 

The hum of the bee is mournful, 
The sun casts a gloom o'er the sea, 

The moon is a ghostly spectre— 
When Love cometh not to me! 

Yet e'er does the sad sea hope for 
The balm of the morning sun, 

And the moon in patience awaiteth 
The clouds of the night to shun. 

The bee ne'er tires of seeking. 
The nectar in some sweet flow'r — 

And I know that she is coming— 
Oh, sweet is that promised hour! 



M O H O N K 

What needs the soul of man to make it feel 
The infiTiiteness of eternal peace? 
A spark of love, mayhap, a love that's real, 
Or friendship's bands that never know release? 
Or needs that soul a certain ecstacy 
Inspired romantic'ly of some sublime 
Heroic life whose greatness needs must be 
Anomolous with ravages of Time? 

My simple soul, to test the great God's powr, 
Sees not alone His ma-n-reflected light, 
Nor human loves that oftimes seem to tow'r 
To wondrous bliss, yet fade within a night. 
Humanity in man's a ceaseless change. 
Heroic deeds illumine but a while 
And giving 'way to greater deeds and strange 
That Proteus graces each with e'en a smile. 

Whe^'er my soul its wondrous depth would match 
With some great thing intuned to its own plane, 
A linger'ing glimpse of Sky Top it must catch. 
And Shawangunk's ridge where beauties never 

wane. 
And so, whene'er I crave a certain quiet 
Where no intruding Godless thing may see, 
I take my soul to Nature, nor deny it 
Old Mohonk's Lake and all its ecstacy. 



O, scene of ceaseless change, yet e'er the same, 
What greater proof of Gods artistic skill 
Needs man than thou? Thy beauties ever shame 
The narrow meanesses of Ma-ns cold will. 
And, Oh, how long thou hast been there. Oh, sce-ae. 
And yet how long thy future life must be — 
No name fits thee, unless perchance it be 
God's wondrous symbol of Eternity. 



AUGUST 

There's a smile in every zephyr 
Thai dances through the trees; 
There's a laugh in every sunbeam, 
There's a thrill in every breeze — 

There's a sigh in every leaflet, 
There's a tear in every flower, 
For the smiles of August tell them 
That death is soon their dower. 

Yet all the flow'rs and leaflets 
That droop their heads in tears 
Know life anew awaits them 
Whenas the Spri-ng appears. 

And thus when Love has perished, 
And Life is chilled by Hate, 
There comes a Spring that brings us 
New love, new life, new fate. 



WOOD ROW WILSON 

Emerging from the chaos of Uie light 

For peace and human freedom, thus he stands 

Tlie hero in his hour. The blowing sands 

Of petty politics ne'er dim his sight, 

And knows he well that he who must be right 

Is chosen from the mass the mass to lead. 

The millions" destinies within his hands 

He holds, defying wars in other lands. 

'Tis he who doth his country s history write 

The while he makes it; knows the future's need 

Lies not with glories in the dead past curled, 

But that the human brotherhood to last 

Must spring from out the present's virile seed 

Into the flower, perennial, of truth. He hast 

The courage both to serve and lead the world. 



WHOM WAR REWARDS 

The price of peace is war. Alas, 'tis true; 

Yet who attain it, mothers husbandless; 

The maid, deserted; kings who war pursue? 

Nay, none of these; not they this peace possess, 
When war is done. The prize goes to the host 
That lifeless lies upoii the sun-kisst green; 
'Tis they who paid with blood the higher cost; 
They faced the unsheathed sword's gay glist'ning 

sheen. 
And felt its thrust when Duty, falsely dressed, 
And Honor, ill-advised, made light the pain 
That ends in death; their souls with rest are 

blesst — 
For War rewards with peace whom War has slain. 



MY PARTNER 

There's a little half dressed fellow. 

As small as small can be; 
His eyes are large, his hair is yellow 

And hes always foiiowiriii me. 

1 meet him on the highways. 

He greets me on the plai".i. 
His ways are ever my ways. 

He s with me sun or rain. 

"Who is he?" do you wonder? 

Why, you should know his name — 
His voice though soft s the thunder 

Of Love's swift lightning flame. 

Yet, why should I be sellish, 
About my constant friend — 

Though he be queer an.d ellish, 
You'd love him without end. 

He's a little half dressed fellow — 
Dan Cupid, good a-id true; 

His voice is soft and mi^llow. 
And he talks of naughl but you. 



THE HUNTER S' MOON 

What do they hunt when the Hunters' Moon 
Doth brighten the earth and the sky? 

Do they ride to the woods to a hunting tune, 
To the game dogs' howling cry? 

Do they frighten the rabbit that he must rua 

All aimlessly here and there; 
Do the raccoon's eyes stare into a gun 

Do the wild birds' shake in their lair? 

There may be men who do these things 

When stars, like Dian's shoon, 
Stick their toes through the white that clings 

To the sky in the Hunters' Moon. 

But lovers, like you aTid me, my dear, 

Hunt not, on nights like these, 
The woods' wee folks, nor bring a fear 

To birds in their nesting trees. 

Yet we hunt, in the Hunters' Moon, 

We fmd our game in beams; 
We ride to the woods to a huTiting tune, 

And hunt Love's golden dreams. 



10 



SPRING 

Spring is coming. 

I hear the rustling of her gown, 

Her silken scarf just brushed my brow, 

I heard her smile at Winter's frown. 

Spring is coming. 

Her cloth top boots are wet with dew, 
She breathes the perfume of the rose, 
She's looking, love, for me and you. 

Spring is coming. 
Just now I heard a blue jay tell 
His love mate that her coming brings 
An apple-blossom in the dell. 

Spring is coming. 

Her golden chariot decked with flow'rs, 
Approacheth from the eastern sky, 
Well see her in a few short hours. 

Spring is coming. 

Awake! prepare to take her hand, 
She brings -new life to saddened souls, 
And scatters hope o'er all the land. 

Spring is coming. 

You ask me how I know so much: — 
She must be coming; how could I 
Feel in my soul her gentle touch. 



Spring is coming. 

'"he holds me in a tiglit embrace, 
Aiiil bids mo write the usual rhymes 
That hor arrival e'er must grace. 

Spring is coming. 

She held me to her heart so tight, 

And would not let me go until 

I promised her these rhymes I'd write. 



12 



UNDER THE ROUGE 

I saw her trip across the stage, 
Before the footlights glare, 
And all the beauties of the age 
Were twined around her hair. 

Her brown eyes sparkled like the light 
A polished diamond throws; 
The softness of a moonlit night 
Transformed was in her pose. 

I loved her then, my love was strong, 

I craved to tell her so, 

I put my sentiment in song, 

And prayed her love to know. 

The stage door man took her my card, 
Tied to a red bouquet, 
My heart was beating fast and hard — 
Fd hear what she would say. 

I saddened when I saw her there. 
Her painted cheek and all,— 
And that thick, twining mass of hair- 
Was hanging on the wall. 

My heart grew sick, my love song died, 
My disappointme-nt chilled, 
'Twould then have pleased m{< much to hide, 
Where death all life has stilled. 

13 



Y».;t, [hen. liow like ilie rest of life 
Is that by footlights shaded, 
How often is the thing we love — 
A painted rose, yet faded. 



THE LIFE OF A YEAR 

Now sets the sun upon a dying day 

Preparing soon to cast a brighter light 

Upon a newer day. Thus fades away 

Each year— for Time lets nothi-ng ch^ck it flight. 



A "dying day'' 1 called this passing year — 
'Tis but a day, meseems, since you and I 
Did bid farewell, mayhap without a tear, 
To such another year which we saw die. 



A year is but a day drawn out; its Spring 
Is nothing but the rising sun at mom. 
When Day is but a wholesome youthful thing, 
Inspiring man to life new-born. 

The years warm Summer's but the noon-day sun 
That glows its greatest for a little while, 
Illuminating all; yet ere the day is done 
The same sun throws on all its twilight smile. 

What more like Autumn's crimson, ^rown and gold 
Is Twilights throne upon the sun-Ut West? 
Doth not the year, near dying, first unfold, 
Like day at eve, its fairest dress and best? 

15 



And soon the golden Autumn dies in song 
To make a place for Winter, when the sun 
Is distant. This the night so cold and long — 
Tis thus a year; just like a day, doth run. 

So let us wipe from out our op'Tiing eyes 
The moist of sleep, lets brush the dust away 
And meet the New Year s sun when Old Year dies 
With life renewed — as on a new-born day. 



It) 



T H E F 1 N A L C U R T A I N 

Oh, what is death to them that know it not— 
An end to all the works and joys this world 
Affords; an entrance into such a sad estate, 
Where hearts are heavy, filled with vain regrets, 
Or, e'en a change monotonous with never ceasing 

bliss? 
I sit and watch the play, portraying things 
That make this life so real, some happy instances, 
Experiences of folks fictitious or who really lived 
The actors in their parts become the while 
All newer friends of mine— acquaintances— whenas 
They humanize a story on the stage. 
Tis thus this life is but a play, as sings 
Old Avon's bard, and we the actors int. 
We laugh, we weep, we love we hate, 
And seldom welcome that an end should come-- 
Yet, then, as in the playhouse, comes the close 
When falls the final curtain ending ail- 
But stop, who can deny a greater play, 
With newer scenes and scenes more beautiful, 
And staged by Him, the greater Playwright, then 
Awaits the audience? And death is, after all, 
The final curtain of this play on earth, 
Yet, rising on Eternity's wide stage unfolds 
An endless drama, played by actors, real 
And soulful and intuned with all the beauties of 
eternal life. 

17 



FORGIVENESS 

Ah, should a friend of mine turn enemy, 
And cause me paiii where joy was not to flow, 
Should fail to speak in friendly terms to me, 
And daily cause the breach to wider grow — 



Would 1 return forthwith the thrusts of hate. 
Seek vengeance in a cruel remark or deed? 
Or would I curse him to a gruesome fate 
Or hope his acts his soul to Hell would lead? 



Ah, no; a friend is "lot so simply lost; 
No rarer gem there is — akin to love — 
A gem that's worth the highest human cost, 
Its lustrous brightness cometh from above. 



Ah, should a friend of mine turn enemy — 
No malice would I waste thereon the while 
Denying me his hospitality— 
Fd meet his anger with a gentle smile. 



18 



TO THE TENTH NEW YORK 

INFANTRY ON LEAVING 

NEW PALTZ 

You found us, on a winters eve, 
A quiet folk, half dreaming-; 

You found us er(; we learned to grieve 
O er vvar with all its scheming. 

It seemed, we thought a cruel fate 

That m this peaceful valley 
The tramp of soldiers should berate 

The wild birds' morning rally. 
We saw no other world but ours, 

By Shawangunks tall tops bounded; 
A world in summer gay with flowers 

By verdant fields surrounded. 

We thank you for the broader view 
You've opened to our vision— 

To some you've given strength in lieu 
Of sellish indecision. 

Weve learned that you are men, as we, 
With hearts and loves and beauties; 

But brave enough to dare to see 
Your country s sacred duties. 

19 



And now we hope this parting brings 

To us a firm endeavor, 
To fight for peace — despite wars stings 

Forever and forever. 

You've left us — on a summers day— 
A dreaming folk awaking 
To feel we owe to you the way 
Well face the storm now breaking. 

August 15, 1917. 



20 



DISCOVERY 

I passed a rosebud on the way, 

And asked if she had seen 
My own true love, my love so gay, 

Advancing o'er the green. 

The rosebud smiled, yet shook her head, 

In a melancholy way; 
"She has not passed this way," she said, 

"Your love so young and gay." 



I asked a daiicing daffodil 

If he had seen my love — 
"She passed not yet yon rippling rill, 

Nor yon tall hill above." 



A stately robin I espied, 
And then methought that he 

Had seen my love, if she did glide 
Beneath his castle tree. 

The robin sang, as robins do, 

A certain denial — 
Ah, love, I sighed; you've put me through 

A seemi-ng endless trial. 

21 



And while I sighed and wondered why 

She left not any trace, 
A beauteous grove I did espy, 

Which trees and flow'rs did grace. 

I ran thereto and peeped therein, 
Full sure Fd find her there; 

I heard the wild birds merry din, 
A fragrance fdled the air. 

My love is resting here, meseems, 
I sighed in hopeful mood; 
For of such haunts I know she dreams, 
She ever seeks the wood. 

I cast a furtive glance about 
The green things there agrowing; 

And felt that if I did but shout 
She'd come, her cheeks aglowing. 

Adown the distant corner of 
The grove I saw there sitting, 

With flowYs below and flow'rs above, 
A maid, the scene befitting. 

She looked a very quee-n to me, 

Her hair and eyes and lips 
Were fairer than such things could be — 

A queen unto her finger' tips. 

22 



And while I mused and sighed and dreamed 

Of things Id like to do 
To win a smile of her who beamed 

As even fairies do 

A certain impulse bade me to 

Approach her golde".i throne — 
Twas then I learned the queen was you, 

My love, my very own. 

Ah, Love, since I have found your realm, 
Which e'en with heav'n compares, 

I oiler ail my love as balm 
To heal your worldly cares. 

Your king FlI be, your errant knight. 

Your army and your slave; 
And jealous beygars shall I light 

Should they nut here behave. 

And when at eve the sim shall kiss 

A good night, gold arrayed, 
We"ll then enjoy the throbbin? bliss 

Of loving unafraid. 



PAN PIPES 

<"oiiif% Pan. speed up thy pipes, 

And sing me of the spring — 

Of how the robin greets the golden morn, 

With songs of love; 

Tell me, nympth, how must I match my words 

To poetize about the beauties of thy wild abode, 

What subtle phrasing must I make to tell 

The world how beautiful the meadow lark's 

Gay, winsome ode to his gay, bashful love: 

How tantalizing to the ear the noisy chirp 

The redwing gives when wooing in the trees; 

Or give me, Pan, some thoughts descriptive of thy 

trees; 
Thy fuzzy pussy willows, at their best; 
How needs must I describe these early flowers of 

spring 
We soon shall see on hill and dale; 
How can we e'en transpose in metered verse 
How sings the rippling brook while on it rambles 
Through myriad rocks anrl roots and grasses 

green. 

P A N' S R E S P O N S E 

Now, Lav, you ask a heap ©f me, 
Whose tools are pipes, not pens. 



Yet I'd suggest that if thou wouldst be inspired 
to write 

Of nature in her spring, take thou a trip among 
her 

Trees, muse o'er her brooks, heed well the robin's 

Song, a-nd gaze upon her mountains looming large 

Whenas the morning sun doth magnify all beauties. 

Just take this hint, old Deerfoot. Then, I'll bet 
a bean 

Youll not attempt expression of her loveliness 

In ill-matched phrases, rhyming words, and use- 
less adjectives. 

Nature is her own great poet; no human pen has 
e'er 

Translated all her beauties. Take the tip from 
me, old Lav, — 

It can't be done. 



m 



TO MY VALENTINE 

I love you — 

You, with eyes that sparkle 
Like a goblet of wiiie; 
Whose silken tresses falL 
Like Niagara's graceful waves, 
Over the rolling precipice of 
Your alabaster brow! 

I love you — 

You, whose silvery voice 

Gives warmth to the cool winter air 

It strikes, and far surpasses 

The liquid warblings of 

Summer's sweetest birds! 

Yea, I love you — 

Fairest of all the fair, 

You, whose youthful heart 

And gay young soul 

Make light the burdens of the Universe, 

I love you! 

And you are all I say you are; 
To me the sun rises in the lustrous 
Brilliance of your wistful eye; 
The moon has not a greater grace 
ThaTi that which outlines the 

26 



Delicate contour of your countenance. 
You are the most beautiful thing 
The world has ever seen. 

With all the little quiv'rings of 

My throbbing heart, 

With all the eloquence at my command, 

With all the fervor of a love- ful soul, 

And with all the hope of 

One whose love is real, 

I send you this, my valentine — 

But, for the love of Mike, 
What's your -name, 
And where do you live? 



ON BUYING ROSES IN DECEMBER 

Just a rose — 

A dainty flower, scented and bedeckt 

In robes of royal red ; no sad negh^ct 

Is ever known to cause thy scented head 

To droop in pain; all eyes on thee are fed. 



Just a rose- 
All eyes on thee are fed; yea all desires 
Are summed up in thy perfume, which inspires 
The souls of men and women to possess 
Thee — proof sublime of Nature's loveliness. 



Just a rose — 

One most desired by men and women ail. 
Though I consider thee a thing so small 
As to rest on my coat's lapel, I'm lost 
Whenas my florist tells me of thy cost. 



» 



WHEN THE LEAVES BEGIN 
TO FALL 

Nature has painted the beautiful leaves 
A beautiful color of brown; 
Yet, Oh, how my sensitive soul sadly grieves 
To see all those leaves falling down. 



The tree looks so sad when hes stripped of his 

coat, 
That gold colored coat wrapped around; 
Naked he stands, while o'er the lawn floats 
His leaves with their rustling sound. 



I love the brown leaves, and their shade make me 

glad; 
I write of their beauty with ease; 
But raking them up on the lawn makes me mad-- 
I wish they would stay on the trees. 



30 



O C T O B E R 

Wlial makes tin? air so mild and sweet, 
The trtnvs so browi, the golden corn 
More golden, and the folks we meet 
So gay and seemiiy new-born? 



\\'hal makes the sunset's sky so bright. 
How comes it by its colored gown? 
Why sings the katy-did at night, 
Where is the farmer's erstwhile frown? 



All things have changed; what makes them thus? 
The world seems dift'rent — yet Fm sober. 
Oh, now I know — forgive this fuss — 
'Tis hut our annual October. 



;m 



rO A LETTER BEFORE OPENING 
THE ENVELOPE 

I hold thee in an anxious hand, 
The while with joyful mind 
I ponder o'er thy contents — grand, 
Mayhap, or most unkind. 

Yet, gay expectancy doth hint 
That joy thou dost contain; 
Wilt thou inspire a noble stint, 
A sweet, age-long refrain? 

Hast thou a message that imparts 
That I shall wealth inherit? 
Or dost thou speak of love and hearts, 
Or faith that love must merit? 



Thine envelope invites my gaze, 
The hand that wrote my name 
Thereon, is worth my praise — 
A maidens hand, mine own doth shame. 



She kissed that stamp that brought thee here 
And with another kiss she sealed 
Thee safe inside, that none may peer 
At thee — great unrevealed. 

32 



What has she now to say to me? 
Doubts she I love her still? 
Or does she call me, anxiously, 
To her— for go I will. 

But hold, I must no longer dream 
Oer thine unknown contents: 
ril open thee, een though it seem 
A vulgar hand's offense. 

I broke the seal and found therein 
A sheet of paper, blue; 
ATid this I read — my head doth spin: 
"Your rent is over due." 



33 



NEOLITHIC POETRY 

Ten thousand years ago. Had 1 lived then 
And sought to please you as Fm trying now 
By stringing verse, I'd need no golden pen 
Wherewith to write this stuff, for then somehow 
Each bard did wield a chisel, sharp as steel, 
Which, backed up by a heavy hanvmer, he 
Did use to carve out verse to earn bis meal — 
E'en early bards bought meals with poetry. 
Ten thousand years ago. It seems sometimes 
That 'twere a noble calling, chisel armed, 
To sit before a boulder cutting rhymes. 
The rhymster's deep impressions jmusi have 

charmed 
His friends who stood around and watched him 

cut. 
No talk was th^re of ''Has he got the punch?" 
No fear had he of woven baskets, but 
He had to cut the stone to earn his lu"ich. 
Yet, hard as it may seem, I think that I 
Could fmd contentment chiselling a song 
Into a rock; for often do 1 sigh 
To think how quickly fades this ink; not long 
The memory remains of what I write. 
And, maybe, if I used a blade of steel 
Wheiias I poetry like this indite 
Twould make my wits more sharp — and earn a 

meal. 

34 



LAMENT 

Bespeak me, Muse with the golden hair, 

A soulful flight thru th' anabient air; 

A trip to the moon, 

On a da>' in June, 

Or take me, Muse — oh.anywhere. 



I'd like to live in a Swiss chalet, 

And dream love dreams the live-long day; 

Those Alpine hauts, 

Would hear my shouts 

To thee. Oh, Muse, if shout I may. 



"Auch Ich war in Arkadie geborren," 

So Muse come blow your silver horn, 

I live on rhyme. 

And bide my time 

Till thee I meet on a summer's morn. 



I love this town, its old Francais 

Carrieth my soulful soul away; 

But, sweet-voiced Muse, 

I get the blues, 

When on thy golden harp I p'ay. 

35 



For this one saith my verse is punk, 

Another says, "Tis like a hunk 

Of cheese, decade-nt, 

Or mud, so radient, 

When rolled into a dampish chunk. 



But I should worry, Muse, if all 

Who read my rhymes taste naught but gall, 

Whitman, Browning, Poe, 

The whole long list, you know, 

Cared naught about the rabbles bawl. 



And so I write and write and write 

Unpoetic poerns that bite 

Their taste's aesthetic, 

(Tis most pathetic) — 

Yet hope, sweet Muse, to see thy light. 



36 



LINES OM A DARK KNIGHT 

Oh, would I were a knight and bold, 

Accoutred for the fray, 
And things were as they were of old, 

When knights at arms did play. 

I'd search me out a winsopie dame. 
And pledge herto my heart; 

Then off Td speed with eyes aflame, 
And prove my knightly art. 

And when Fve slain a million knights, 
And spoiled their knightly ire, 

I'd speed me back to Loves Delights, 
And claim my heart's desire. 

And if the damsel failed, forsooth, 

To love me as she ought, 
rd eat her where she stood, in truth, 

To soothe my knightly wroth. 



So love, I hope you'll cease to try 
To live as folks of old; 

And thank your lucky stars thati 
Am not a kiiight so bold. 



37 



A SUMMER REVERY 

The quintessence of morn's young sun, 
The last soft glow when day is done, 
The pale blue light of rising moon. 
Of starry sky that, tent-like, soon 
Spreads o'er the earth, when Man doth lie 
Down to his rest with good-night sigh; 
Or next gray morn when showers fall 
To wet the woods and roads and all, 
And feed with sweet ambrosial wine 
The vilet and the eglantine: 
Or lonely hours of solitude 
When oft my soul with accents rude 
Doth speak of how my heart strings hung 
The God of Love, when passion young — 
Thus while I sum a million joys, 
Including care-free lives of boys, 
I wonder why, with life so sweet. 
The world still groans about the heat. 



36 



CRUELTY TO ANIMA.LS 

Do I believe that fairies 
Still sail the summer breeze, 

That good Titiania tarries 
Aloft within the trees? 



Of course, I do, moreover, 

I see them every day; 
For scores of them do hover 

Along the broad highwav. 

You'd know one in a moment, 
Once you caught her eye; 

A glance therof would foment 
In you an ecstacy. 

I met an nymph one eve 
Who filled my soul with bliss, 

That I with her would leave 
So cold a world as this. 



She smiled upon me sweetly, 
She teased me with her eyes, 

She won my heart completely— 
Yes, taken by surprise. 

39 



And I returned the favor, 
I said, in my complacence, 

I liked her sweet behavior 
On such a short acquaintaiice. 



When I my heart would chance it 
To the fairy of this pome, 

My wife said — nymph, sic transit 
"Come, dear; now let's go home. 



40 



THE SIMPLE LIFE 

I know a lovers' talc which I 
Shall now unfold lo you: 

A tale of love without a sigh. 
Yet it is over true. 



No villian haunts this little tale, 

It isn't in that clas:^; 
The hero's but a simple male 

Who loves a simple lasjs. 

This simple maid is happy for 
She loves this simple wight; 

Alo-ne she thinks his love vows o'er, 
She dreams of him at night. 



His love for her is greater than 
The greatest loves of old. 

(Forsooth, no other rhyming man 
A simpler love tale told.) 



Yet that is all I've got to tell, 
My tale is near its close; 

[I do not think this tale will sell, 
'Tis lighter than the snows.) 

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But I am sure youVl like to know 
Who are these lovers two; 

Who is the youth with heart aglow, 
And who the maid so true. 

Oh, he is but a simple male, 

And she a simple lass, 
For lovers all, just like this tale, 

Are in the simple class. 



42 



MARCH, THE GAY DEGIEVER 

A little blue bird perched upon a bow 
Twittered to my list 'ning ear 
His little melody — I felt somehow^ 
That spring would soo-n be here. 



A blade of grass peeped forth this morn 
And seem exultant once again to see 
The sun which gave it life new born — 
Another sign bespeaking spring to me. 



And now today upo-n her tresses dark, 
My love was balancing a straw affair; 
Forsooth, my housedog has a merry bark; 
I'm sure he feels that spring is in the air. 



And thus at night retiring to my sleep, 

I felt the morn would other spring signs 

show; 
But then, on waking, saw I at a peep — 
The grouind all covered with a sheet of snow. 



43 



TWILIGHT 

What did I see 

When the sun went down, 
And the sky was so red 

And the mountains so brown? 



I saw nothing else 

But the sky, bathed in red, 
And the mountai'as so bold, 

And the sun gone to bed. 

But MY SOUL saw a scene, 
Of wonderful things, 

That nothing but God 
And the love of him brings. 

It saw, did my soul, 
On the rift of a cloud 

A beautiful maiden 
That beckoned aloud. 



A*id she said to my soul, 
"Gome, Spirit, with me, 

ril take you, I promise, 
To far Arcady." 

u 



And my soul put on wings, 

And flew far away; 
The fairies it saw, 

And the lovers at play. 

And while it was sailing 

Thru infinite space 
The sun o'er the mountains 

Had gone down apace. 

The beautiful maiden 
Who borrowed my soul 

Flew awaj'' on a star, 
And leaving me dole 

But alas, what care I, 
If my soul thus meanders, 

Where fairies for horses 
Use gold winged ganders. 

For just as the maiden 

Referred to above. 
Flew away on that star 

Like a circus-trained dove, 

I heard in the distance 
When as the sun fell, 

The soul-stirring tinkle 
Of the suppertime bell. 
45 



OPERATIC CATS 

A man may in a thousand humble ways 
Show that he has a heart for every fate, 

Yet he who toils with vigor all his days 
Has no respect for cats that stay up late. 

I have a tender heart — these lines attest — 
Still I am OTie who likes a little sleep; 
So why, I ask, should human souls be blesst 
With cats that sing while in the dark they creep? 

A cat may be a useful little beast, 

For it has such a scientific way 
Of nabbing mice which on our victuals feast. 

Yet it should do its singing while 'tis day. 

For sociability a cat's a trump, 

Its frank democracy we all esteem; 
But when each cat at night goes on a stump 

It eloquently spoils some human dream. 

I know about these things of which I write, 
For I have had the singing company 

Of several thousand cats a single night 
And each one seemed to be upon a spree. 

I have so nmch dislike for yellmg cats 
To chastise them I entertain no fear. 

So that's the reason why their mid-night chats 
1 put in rhyme — a punishment severe. 

46 



IT ALL DEPENDS UPON 
THE WEATHER 

Oh, for the Hfe of the gypsy, 

To wander at will o'er the land; 
With never a sorrow or worry — 

A gypsy so care-free and tanned. 

Id sing to the God of Creation. 

(Were I but a gypsy and free) 
A song filled with wildest elation 

(That is, if, He'd listen to me.) 

And being a gypsy and wand'ring 
At will o'er the fields and the woods> 

Fd laugh at the high cost of living — 
For Nature delivers the goods. 

Yet, ere I began my crusadin', 
(That is, as a gypsy, you know) 

Id corral a wee, winsome maiden, 
And make her a real gypsy beau. 

And rhymes I would pluck from the flowers, 

An epic Fd slice from the dew; 
And these would my love serve at luncheon— 

A veritable gypsical stew. 

47 



We'd sip from the elover its honey 

(That is, when we've learned how 'tis done) 

We'd never need hanker for money, 
And clothes la Poiret we would shun. 

Oh, .for the life of a gypsy, 
To wander at will o'er the land — 

Where's the maid who is willing to wander 
And live the free life I have planned? 



Yet, girlie, while thinking it over, 
In thoughts more prosaic and plain, 

My gj^psical wanderings would oft be 
Postponed on account of the rain. 



m 



AUTUMN 

Oh, what of the dawnmg, its sombersome grey? 
And what of the sunset, its gold — bright and gay? 
Yes, what of the moonlight, its silv'ry white 

beams? 
Then what of the starlight, which twinkles and 

gleams? 
Oh, what of them all, these heavenly things? 
Oh, what shall my song be, its melody rings? 



The sombersome grey of the morning's first dawn 
Should harmo-nize sweetly with some sleeper's 

yawn ; 
The gold, bright and gay, of the sunset I'll rhyme 
With dinner, the sunset bespeaks of that time; 
The silvry white beams of the autumn moonlight 
Rhymes well with the cats on the back fence at 

night; 
The twinkles and gleams of a star in the sky 
I can't fmd a rhyme for— I cant reach so high. 



40 



NON COMPOS MENTUS 

Do you know what I would do 

Were I possessed of that gift 

Called poetic, and could string 

Rhymes sans reason, rhythm 

With a swing thereto — 

Could stretch my arm into the infinite 

And pluck therefrom a passing glance 

Of what will be my soul's sure fate 

Forever and forever — 

Gould I with eyes of Swinburne, 

Byron, Shelley, Noyes, Tennyson, 

Or even those of Horace, satiric, 

See fairies in the tall poplar tree 

Whose roots are raising the dickens with 

Our sewer pipes in the back yard — 

Or could I translate the robin's morning 

Song, the blue jay's shrill nocturne 

Or transcribe the certain feli-ngf 

Gay and solemn, various colors have 

Upon my friends — like the unhealthy 

Effect a dart of red hath upon a 

Roaring bull — 

Or if mine eyes had in them that peculair 

Gift that enables bards to see (as plain 

As the nose on your face,) Aurora a-ud her 

Golden chariot (some call it a Ford) -'^ 

50 



Ascending the ^asterri heavens on high (and 
With the cut out open) whenas the 
Soul stirring sun bestirs the lazy- 
Worker in his comfortable bed of hay — 
Ah, friends, had I the gifts (poetic I 
Repeat,) to see and do these things — 
What would I do?— 
Why, bless my soul, Fd consult 
A brain specialist. 



51 



